


Because You're Mine

by Sigart



Series: BYM-verse [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigart/pseuds/Sigart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denmark and Sweden has a very special relationship, rarely expressed better than in times of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Historical events referenced and/or alluded to: Stockholm Bloodbath, Great Northern War, Bornholm's return to Denmark in 1648, ww2, and the number of known conflict. Assume anything else to be fictional. That includes the story ;)

“What're y' doing here?” The tall man had not even turned his head, looking cautiously out from behind a boulder in case he, no, they were attacked.

 

“What are you asking? If I didn't know better I'd think you didn't want my company.” The second man was standing well protected behind the boulder, leaning casually against the haft of his double-bladed axe, keeping an eye on their backs.

 

“Don't.”

 

“Ha. Why am I not surprised by that, I wonder?”

 

\+ - +

 

12 wars. 30-40 armed conflicts. Constant bickering.

 

The world knew that the two Scandinavian countries were enemies. Denmark hated Sweden with a fierce pride and Sweden carried such contempt for Denmark it bordered on loathing.

 

Despite, or maybe exactly because of the fact that the two countries carried almost identical ideals, they never sat next to each other. Ever. At world meetings, Norway and Finland both made sure to keep them apart, lest another incident, like in 1892, should occur.

 

At dinner parties, they were sat at each end of the table, or the room, if possible.

 

For a reason no one could fathom, while both countries' leaders got along well, the personifications of the countries just did not.

 

Maybe it was because their memory reached farther. Sweden still vividly remembered the Stockholm Bloodbath and Denmark could not get over how big and influential his little brother had gotten.

 

Or maybe their personalities just clashed.

 

When Russia declared war on Sweden, though, Denmark was the first by his side.

 

\+ - +

 

“Why 're y' here?”

 

“Well, you already asked that once.”

 

The kneeling nation grunted something derisive, causing the grin on the standing nation's face to widen. He eyed his axe, as though it wasn't more than familiar in his hands. As though he needed to gauge its size and weight. As though he was about to use it for an extremely delicate surgery. The grin turned sharp and cold. Like cut diamonds in ice.

 

A breeze picked up and rustled the crowns of trees nearby. Firs and spruces, mainly, in this part of Sweden. Neither nation offered them more than a casual glance, and only to make sure Russia hadn't climbed one to snipe them.

 

The smile never changed.

 

In an almost casual move, the man leaned over, putting a deceptively light hand on his companions shoulder, letting it linger there. He leaned down further, making certain that he was thoroughly invading personal space. He moved the hand two centimetres, like he was starting a caress, taking pleasure from how tense his companion became at the touch.

 

“Wouldn't it,” he purred, leaning in further, until his chest was touching the other's back and his mouth had bypassed whispering into the stoic man's ear and rather moved lightly directly against the other's cheek. “Be completely inappropriate for the King of Scandinavia to not protect his subject?”

 

“'Nd Norway? 'N World War Two?”

 

“Tch,” Denmark scoffed, but didn't move, still leaning on the Swedes back and pressing his cheek against the man's ear, his lips brushing the kneeling man's cheek. “He should've followed my lead and surrendered immediately. I can't very well take responsibility for disobedience, can I?” His grin returned.

 

“S'me king. Y' just roll'd over 'n y'r back.”

 

“Mh, indeed, so I did.”

 

“D'd y' enjoy being G'rmany's bitch?”

 

“Heh, 'twas great fun, actually. You should've tried it. ...Then again, you weren't very far off, were you?”

 

Sweden grunted. “G't off.”

 

“But then,” Denmark continued unperturbed. “I'm glad you didn't.” The hand, previously resting on Sweden's shoulder moved forward to idly finger a button at the front of his shirt. In a sudden move, Denmark had grabbed hold of his rival's lapels and with a show of strength belied by his slim form he hauled the taller nation up against the boulder and whirled his axe around to rest almost casually against the other's jugular. “I can't have anyone else bend you over, now, can I?”

 

Sweden cursed internally. He had forgotten how deceptively strong his smaller neighbour was not to mention how annoyingly insistent. He cursed again, this time allowing a slight growl to escape him when he noticed that aside from the axe, the Dane had somehow also managed to wedge a knee in between his legs.

 

“Good boy,” Denmark purred happily with a glance down at the gun pressing into his ribs. “Lets call this one a draw. I'm removing my axe now.”

 

Sweden was... somewhat happy with the warning as he was certain the slight initial move of the edge against his skin would have had him pull the trigger otherwise. On the other hand, it would have been an excellent excuse to off the bastard once and for all. He slowly lowered the gun.

 

To his irritation, the idiot before him did not remove his leg.

 

And now that there were no weapons in the way, he had the audacity to lean in closer until he was mere centimetres from pressing himself flush against the stocky Swede.

 

“I still d'n't g't why y' here.” He wanted to push the idiot away, but knew it for a lost cause from the get-go; their strength were similar enough that with the slight advantage of position the Dane had, it would be impossible to pry him off. “Wer'n't y' 'nd Russia allies? I r'member y' two splitt'ng Finland 'nd me 'tween y'.”

 

“That was... a long time ago,” the Dane smiled fondly. “Besides, that was with the agreement that  Russia got sweet little Finland and kept his hands off of you. This... this is quite something else.” There was a slight pause, then; “I don't think you quite get it, do you?” the arrogant nation asked, his face suddenly looming even closer. “You're _mine_. I am not letting anyone else have you.” The statement came out in a low growl before he grinned, holding eye-contact. “Hey. Sweden.” His voice had, if possible, dropped even lower and was now dripping with honey. Damn the idiot and his willingness to use anything in his arsenal to provoke. And damn him for being so good at it. “Is that a new gun?”

 

“Wh't?” Sweden asked shortly, taken aback by the unexpected question.

 

“New gun? I don't recognize the brand. And I know I'm not a gun nerd like America, but I did read up on it before I came here. Did you get Ikea to design it?” A slight blush spread over the taller man's cheeks. “You did! Oh god, I can't believe it, you got...” His voice quieted abruptly as he pressed his lips together to try and suppress the very loud laughter that was threatening to erupt. After a few seconds where the only sounds were some muffled laughter, Denmark gave up on suppressing the laughter and simply concentrated on keeping it quiet while he stood, shaking and leaning his forehead against the other's shoulder. Sweden had a nagging suspicion that the loud-mouth's grip on his lapels was the only thing holding him up.

 

“'T's n't that f'nny,” he mumbled, the blush spreading.

 

“Wha'?” The Dane asked, finally getting a grip on his mirth. “But it is! It totally is. You got Ikea, _Ikea_ , to... to...” he dissolved into laughter once more. Sweden stoically waited for him to calm down again, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. What was wrong with the other Scandinavian? He was the oldest, it was true, but he was also the most immature, the most laid back, the most arrogant, and by far the most perverse of Scandinavia. Hell of all the Nordics. Even if you counted Latvia (and Sweden didn't, really). “Ikea, source of massfrustration all over the world...” And he was gone again, lost somewhere in his own delusions, probably.

 

Not to mention the rudest, the stupidest, and the loudest. Sometimes, you really had to wonder whether the brash idiot really was their brother.

 

Finally, he seemed to be done. He took a deep breath and straightened. His lips still twitched, and there was a merry twinkle in his baby blue eyes, which Sweden was sure was very charming if you didn't already hate the Dane's guts.

 

Denmark sighed and removed his hand from his captives collar to brush away a tear that had escaped.

 

Sweden pretended not to be following the hand intently. As soon as Denmark had his fingers against his face, left eye half-closed to wipe away the droplet, Sweden took action. Suddenly, Denmark found himself pressed flush against the boulder, his cheek scraping against rough stone, one hand twisted around on his back and Sweden's gun pressing insistently against his spine.

 

He did, however, still have a firm grasp on his axe and while the move had been sudden, it had not been entirely unexpected; his axe was, once again, threatening to decapitate Sweden. It was an awkward angle to say the least, and only possible because he, as a nation, had a little more power than humans and, as a nation more than a millennium old, had quite some experience with his axe. He smirked. Draw again.

 

“That's your fancy, new, build-yourself gun poking me between the shoulders, right?” Sweden grunted, somehow knowing that whatever the Dane was about to say, he wouldn't like it. “So... then I guess the other thing poking me in the back is because you're a real fucking sick bastard. How long have you been hard?”

 

Sweden decided not to take the bait and withdraw. Instead he pressed closer. “S'nce I 'mag'ned shoot'ng a hole thr'gh y',” he answered and forced his knee in between the other's legs so that they now stood in an almost perfect mirror of their previous position.

 

Denmark, however, was not that easily cowed. He spread his legs further and pressed his ass back into the cradle of Sweden's groin. “Baby, if you wanted to fuck, all you had to do was ask.” His voice had once again dropped to that sultry, seductive purr, his eyes half-lidded and directed over his shoulder at the Swede. His breath was suddenly coming in short pants.

 

Sweden eyed the decidedly fuckable Dane. How sincere was he? How much of the show was just that? An act, designed to excite the Swede just so he could laugh as he ran. There really was no telling with Denmark, it depended on his mood more often than not, and the decision could change in a split second.

 

“ _He's here,_ ” the Dane mouthed suddenly before throwing his head back and moaning loudly. So not only was Russia nearby, he had already spotted them. Denmark was not stupid enough to give away their position like that, especially when there was no discernible reason why he was moaning.

 

“Where?” Sweden asked back, concealing his mouth against the other's neck.

 

“Four o'clock.”

 

Sweden didn't risk a glance in the appointed direction but simply, warily, removed his hand from Denmark's so he was no longer restraining his ally. Denmark didn't take advantage of his freedom to trap Sweden again. He simply placed the hand against the rock so he could support his forehead against it. The blade against Sweden's neck moved as though Denmark's hold had slackened, though Sweden was willing to bet Scania that the Dane was more aware of that shaft in his hand than he was of the one pressing insistently into his backside.

 

The taller nation removed his gun from Denmark's back before he pressed even closer, free hand gripping the other's hips. “I hope y'r pack'ng s'meth'ng b'sides that stup'd axe,” he breathed into the other's ear before giving into temptation and sinking his teeth into the soft lobe.

 

Denmark grit his teeth, biting down an unwilling sound before he answered. “You really think I'm that stupid? I have two in shoulder holsters and one in the belt.” With his forehead once again resting against the cool stone, he grabbed Sweden's hand and placed it against his chest. “You feel it?”

 

The taciturn man shifted his fingers against the fabric of Denmark's coat, cursing the idiot and his vanity for bringing such a high-quality wool coat to war of all things.

 

“Sweden,” Denmark hissed annoyed, then moaned convincingly, hips twitching. “Weapon. Less groping.”

 

He really was putting on a good show, Sweden mused, fingering the slim weapon Denmark had hidden, then slid his hand across his chest, finding another similar firearm on the other side. Foregoing asking the Dane about the last one he supposedly carried in his belt, Sweden moved his hand down, stroking the rich fabric and the toned body underneath in a search for the third gun Denmark said he had brought with him.

 

“Bastard,” the smaller man gritted when the taller of the two took the opportunity to cup his erection. At least that meant it was not _all_ an act. Denmark thrust into Sweden's hand a couple of times before the hand was removed and then threw his head back against his rival's shoulder making a half strangled sound in his throat.

 

“Y' l've show'ng off f'r Russia.” Statement of fact rather than question. “Exh'bition'st.” He found the gun. A much bigger one than the two in shoulder holsters.

 

“Could've been worse. I could've been a voyeur. You wanna bet Scania that Russia's got his hand down his pants?” The axe finally fell to the ground as Sweden started unbuttoning Denmark's coat.

 

“No. Russia's d'fin'tely got h's hand down h's pants 'nd y' got noth'ng t' bet 'gainst Sc'nia.”

 

“Bornholm?”

 

Sweden very nearly shuddered and grabbed Denmark's hips to grind himself harder against his butt to hide the initial, tense reaction. He had managed to unbutton Denmark's coat all the way down. “I w'ldn't 'ccept Bornh'lm 'f y' paid me.”

 

“Ah. Still traumatized? Wish I could say I was sorry.” He shifted, bringing his hands closer to his firearms. “You ready?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

As one they broke away from each other and the boulder they had been standing against to open fire against the Russian.

 

THE END


End file.
